


In the Absence of Dragons

by bending_sickle



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 12:45:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2270217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bending_sickle/pseuds/bending_sickle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where Smaug never came to Erebor, Thror's gold sickness worsened, and Thorin was left to lead a kingdom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Correspondence (Open Me Carefully)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heartofstanding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/gifts).



> This AU is thanks to a prompt from heartofstanding.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thror's gold sickness is growing worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Subtitle from Emily Dickinson's "Selected Letters".

"Thank you for coming," said Thorin, handing Thranduil a goblet of wine. "I would have spared you the journey and gone to Mirkwood myself, only…" The thought of the anchor keeping Thorin deep in Erebor stole the breath from his lungs, and he looked away from Thranduil.

Thranduil, kindly, made no comment, and said only, “It was high time I ventured from my realm. Think no more of it.” He watched Thorin a moment, still standing by the table, his hand wrapped loosely around the wine decanter and his gaze lost in thought.

He looked gaunt, Thranduil realized.  It had been a long time since he had last seen Thorin, but there was no mistaking the sharpness of his frame or the weariness in his expression.  The angles of his face brought to mind the careful wording of Thorin’s correspondence – each letter growing shorter with the passing of the seasons, the matter discussed more impersonal, and the quill-strokes themselves becoming thinner, more angular, as if set down with great care. 

The last such letter – brief in the extreme – had asked only for his presence, and Thranduil had not thought twice before acquiescing, had almost been waiting for it.  It was obvious that matters were not easy for Thorin, and had not been for some time, but seeing its effect on the dwarf in the flesh was unsettling.

Thranduil rose and moved to stand before Thorin.  "Come," he said, laying a hand over Thorin’s.  “Sit with me.” 

Thorin nodded but did not look up.  His fingers slipped from beneath Thranduil’s and he let the elf fill his goblet, then guide him to the low fur-covered bench overlooking a gold-studded chasm, the walls seeming to move in the lamplight.  They sat a while in silence, sipping their wine and contemplating the view before them.

“I have come to hate the sight of gold,” confessed Thorin, his voice low and almost shameful.

Thranduil kept his eyes on some far flicker of light and waited. Beside him, Thorin drank deep of his wine and clinked his rings against the goblet.

“It is everywhere I look, now,” continued Thorin.  “Do you know? My grandfather has had our cutlery changed for gold.  I cannot even sup without seeing that accursed metal.”

Thranduil turned from the chasm and contemplated Thorin, whose gaze was fixed on the goblet in his hands.  “A peculiar sentiment, in a dwarf,” he prodded.

Thorin huffed, sounding half-amused. “Haven’t you noticed? I have many a peculiar sentiment, for a dwarf.”  At this, he looked up at Thranduil, and the expression on his face struck a chord within Thranduil’s chest, leaving him thrumming like a plucked bowstring. 

“I have noticed,” he answered. He searched Thorin’s face, marveling as he always did at the living fragment of sky in his eyes, so out of place in this underground kingdom. “I thought my perception of the fact was obvious.”  For good measure, he placed a hand lightly on Thorin’s arm. Thorin gave him a small smile and turned his hand so it lay upwards on his thigh, and Thranduil’s fingers closed around his wrist.

“Why did you call for me, Thorin?”  Thranduil had his suspicions, of course, fed by the rumours had made their way to his ears, but one could not judge a river by the rain.

The smile fell from Thorin’s lips and he turned his face from Thranduil.  “I fear for my grandfather.”

Thranduil saw again in his mind the empty throne by which Thorin had bid him welcome to his grandfather’s halls, and nodded.  Thorin’s fear found an echo in Thranduil.  “Tell me all,” he said, gently, and moved his hand from Thorin’s wrist to slip into his hand.  Thorin returned his grip and told him all that his quill could not.


	2. Legacy (Gifts from the Dead)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king is dead, his heir is gone, and Thorin is left to sit the throne.

He should have asked sooner.  He’d wanted to ask the minute he heard the herald’s horn - but he’d been a coward. Strange, how such a little thing left him hollow.  Now, with Thorin’s shoulder’s freshly bent under the weight of the crown, it seemed almost foolish to ask. It was certainly too late.

"How long will you stay?" Thorin’s voice was hoarse, overused by endless speeches and dirges that chiseled through his heart with every note.

In the dark beside him, Thranduil stirred. Thorin felt a waft of breath on his cheek - spiced wine and honey - and wondered, as he always did when the candles burnt out, just how well the elf’s eyes fared against the mountain’s shadow. Thorin waited for the elf to reply, but silence settled over them again, heavy and thick, and only a gentle caress over his wrist told him that his words had not gone unheard.

Thorin licked his lips laced with shadows and swallowed, grimacing at the pain. He thought on his father and the pain grew sharper.

"You have been here long enough," he said, louder. He sat up, his hand slipping free. "Your kingdom must need you."

"My kingdom will stand my absence a while longer," assured Thranduil. "My son could do well to taste the crown ere I pass it to him."

This was wholly the wrong thing to say.

Thorin grit his teeth and made to turn away, but Thranduil’s fingers gripped tight around his wrist. “Forgive me.”  Thorin said nothing, but he let himself relax back against Thranduil’s shoulder.

"You say I have stayed ‘long enough’," said Thranduil, words clipped and sharp, and he did not need to have a dwarf’s eyes to see Thorin stiffen at having his words thrown back at him. They, too, had been poorly chosen. Then Thranduil’s tone softened.  "But I think you will suffer me to stay longer still."

Softly, almost reluctantly, came Thorin’s reply. “Aye.” His hand found Thranduil’s. “Aye, I will.”

***

Thorin spoke true when he said the Elven-king hand been in his halls a long time.There had been many a ceremony to attend. Two funerals, to be precise, and one coronation.

Thorin’s kingdom - for it was his in truth, now - and his line had been hard struck by calamity, a double blow that threatened to bring it to its knees.  The death of the king came quick on the heels of the death of the crown prince and left every dwarf of Erebor shaken to the core.

None was more shaken than Thorin, who was one of the few privy to the more gruesome details of both deaths. To the rest - the dwarves of Erebor, his kin in the Iron Hills, even the allies that skirted the kingdom - the facts were sparse and clean, void of detail. The king had died in the treasury, victim of an ill-fated fall. His son - Thorin’s father - was lost to the depths of Moria.

The truth was that Thror had gone mad at last, devouring cut gems until he choked, buried under an avalanche of gold coins, and it had taken half a day’s worth of shoveling to find his body. Thorin could still picture the pure look of bliss on his face as the gold swallowed him.

He’d written the letter of summons to his father in Dis’ room, his sister hovering over his shoulder but both silent as uncut stone as Thorin’s quill scratched parchment. He’d spent the night there, too, two siblings wrapped up in each other’s arms, waiting for their father’s voice, though it was miles away.

The raven came just a few days later. Thrain was gone, along with but a handful of his company. The messenger was some young dwarf whose name Thorin neither knew nor cared to remember, though if he were ever to hear it again he was sure to fly in a rage simply to have something, _someone_ yet living, to blame. The note was brief, the letters scrawled and stained rust-coloured and ash, but they drew an image in Thorin’s mind that would haunt him for nights to come.

He regretted letting Dis pull it from his fingers and read those same words.

A Balrog, a beast of fire and shadow and evil, took his father.

Gold took his grandfather.

With such a lineage, Thorin wondered what terrible end Mahal had in store for him.

The days after the deaths passed Thorin by like a whirlwind, never letting him steady his feet or catch his breath. There were ceremonies to set in motion, messages to send, arrangements for guests to be made, and always, always words of comfort to be strewn to all who grieved for the crown and not a father or grandfather.

Thranduil was of the first to cross Erebor’s gate, riding at the vanguard with his hair streaming behind him like a banner. Others came after him -  King Bard of Dale, the Master of Laketown (and Thorin wondered how he had missed when the men of Dale had splintered their numbers), and finally Thorin’s cousin Dain and panting envoys from the remaining kingdoms.

All were made welcome, more so by Dis’ actions than Thorin’s words, and it was Balin who made sure the funeral arrangements were made. Dwalin hovered by Thorin’s side until Thorin snarled at him to leave him alone.

He made no comment of Thranduil’s presence, constant though it was. The elf kept his distance, but like the sun, he was ever in evidence.

That distance - and the formal veneer that had coated their interactions ever since Thranduil leapt off his horse and strode down the halls of Erebor, voice booming, demanding audience with the new crown prince - was breached the night before Thorin’s coronation. Dwalin had finally heeded Thorin’s words and left his self-appointed post at Thorin’s chamber door. Dis, too, was long-gone, her words of comfort and encouragement redirected to her sons. Fili in particular was nervous and unable to sleep, burning with the realization that in the morning he would be the crown prince, and next in line to a throne that seemed to devour his kin.

So it was that Thorin was alone on the eve of his coronation and his door unguarded, when Thranduil stole down the hall in soft velvet slippers and knocked on the door. Through the wood, he heard Thorin mutter angrily, “Might I not even have nights to myself? Never a minute in peace,” as he made his way across the room.

He had no angry mutterings for Thranduil, however, and after a pause merely stood back and let the Elven-king in. Thranduil spared no time, heading straight for the bed - the covers were drawn back but nary a wrinkle marred the sheets - and laying down in it. Thorin sighed at the sight, as if suddenly feeling the late hour and his own exhaustion, and needed no encouragement to join Thranduil.

After a moment of silence, Thranduil threaded his fingers through Thorin’s. “Tell me the truth,” he coaxed.

Thorin almost laughed, at a loss as to where to begin, but choked the desperate mirth lest Thranduil misunderstand him and think he would not speak.

Thorin schooled his features and slowed his racing thoughts, and the elf was patient as always until at last Thorin spoke.

"It was the gold. Of course it was the gold. It drove him mad."

He told Thranduil of the gems, the avalanche of coins, the look on his grandfathers face. He told him of the raven, the soot, the nightmarish beast that haunted his dreams. Thranduil nodded, understanding.

Then Thorin told him of the crown that awaited him, the kingdom he was now to lead, and a weight crushed his words into whispers. But Thranduil listened, his cheek to Thorin’s forehead, until the king-to-be at last fell asleep. Then he listened to Thorin’s steady breath, and tried to divine what the future might hold for him. Some might even say he worried.


	3. Future (Sheer Vertigo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heavy crowns lead to heavy hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Subtitle from Margaret Atwood's _Oryx and Crake_

Thorin’s been king for three days now, and Thranduil has slept beside him four nights. After the first night —- the one before Thorin’s coronation —- they stay silent in each other’s arms. Thorin is too spent from the day to speak, his mind both set awhirl and numbed from all the decisions and meetings that fill his every waking hour, and Thranduil knows grief well enough to know not to speak. 

Tonight, Thranduil —- who only ever knocked that first night —- finds Thorin sitting at his desk with his head in his hands.  He is slowly rubbing at his temples, and by the light of the candle Thranduil can see the imprints left by the heavy crown.  He does not understand why the dwarves insist on crowns made of metal and gems if they weary them so, but then he remembers that his own crown is, as with the dwarves, made of that which his kingdom provides.  His crown may not be heavy, but it has had its share of thorns.

Thranduil sweeps across the room on light feet to stand behind Thorin, but the new king seems not to have noticed his entrance.  Thranduil watches Thorin’s thumbs press down onto reddened skin, and it’s only when Thorin’s hand shifts and his nails dig into his skin instead that Thranduil moves again.  He slips his hands over Thorin’s, stilling them.  “Thorin,” he begins, but nothing comes after.  Instead, he finishes his sentence with his hands, dipping his fingers into Thorin’s hair —- not so soft and fine as his, but entirely dwarvish in its strength —-and drags them down.  After a few such caresses, Thorin drops his hands from his temples with a drawn-out sigh.

“How long,” whispers Thorin, eyes fixed on the scattered documents that littered his desk.  “How long, do you think, until…”

Thranduil waits, and drags his fingers through Thorin’s hair.

“I feel like…”  Thorin clenches his fists and gathers his thoughts in one slow movement.  “The first time I held a sharpened sword, after training so long with a wooden one, my training left me entirely.  There was a real sword in my hand, a cutting blade, and I forgot everything. The _weight_ of it was…”  Thorin shakes his head at the memory and goes silent again.

Thranduil waits, but it becomes clear that Thorin will not continue. “How long, you wonder,” he says, “until you wield the crown as well as you wield your sword?”

Thorin’s reply is so soft, Thranduil’s hands still as he listens.  “Until they realize I cannot wield it at all.”

Neither of them moves for a breath. Then Thranduil places his hands on Thorin’s shoulders and grips them. “You are king,” he says, words falling heavy as a tree in the woods.  “You are a son of kings.”  His grip tightens.  “Durin’s blood runs through your veins.”

“I have not forgotten,” Thorin grinds out between his teeth, but he does not raise his head.

“Your words suggest otherwise.”

Slowly, Thorin unclenches his hands, lays them flat on the papers before him as if to read them again, then shoves them aside.  He tilts his head back, looking up at Thranduil arched over him, his blond locks like golden bars on either side of him.  “I am lost, Thranduil,” he says.  It is a quiet admission.

Thranduil smiles down at him then, finding him very young, and remembering that he is, indeed, young enough for a dwarf.  He shifts to Thorin’s side and bends down to kiss him on the mouth.

“You are not lost,” he says.  “You are under the mountain.”  He moves in for another kiss, and this time Thorin responds.  When he pulls back, some of the weight seems to have lifted from Thorin’s face.  “You are right where you are meant to be.”


	4. Wine (For Those in Bitter Distress)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil bids Thorin visit him, but something is wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Alcohol is for the dying, and wine for those in bitter distress._
> 
>  
> 
> \- The Bible, Proverbs 31:6 (New Living Version)

Thranduil has managed to convince Thorin to visit him, for a change, instead of the other way around. His letter of invitation – the calligraphy impeccable but the gold-leaf edging purposefully absent - is full of talk of treaties and trades routes, empty words to fill the page, his bidding all that truly matters. Thorin’s response is curt, as if he had been expecting a summons, and a date is set a fortnight later.

The small group of dwarves is surprised to find Thranduil himself waiting for them at the docks along with the reception committee, although Thorin merely shakes his head at the first glimpse of silver-white tresses. “Of course,” he mutters, and his guard share a look and wonder whether to tighten their grip on their weapons. (Ceremonial weapons, to be sure, but the dwarves were adamant they never be unarmed, even under their ally’s roof. Besides, travel was never assumed to be safe, no matter how short the distance.) The dwarves all gather at the side of the ship to watch the elves catch the ropes tossed to them by the bargemen, securing the ship before a plank is set down to the dock.

Thranduil steps to the forefront of the elves, signalling them back with a tiny flick of his wrist. Without a word, he extends a hand towards the ship. Another silent invitation.

Thorin grumbles to himself and walks down the plank, footsteps heavy as he fights the gentle sway of the river that’s settled in his bones. He does not take Thranduil’s hand, but neither does he shake it off his shoulder, when the elvenking settles it there with a gentle grip. “You needn’t have come all this way,” is all he says.

“It’s been a long time,” is all the explanation Thranduil offers.

Thorin looks up at him then, still as a stone while the rest of his company join him on solid ground. “It has,” he agrees, and leaves it at that.

The two companies mingle – dwarves and elves greeting each other with hesitant familiarity – and walk into the darkness of the forest, leaving the sun-kissed dock and creaking ship behind. The bargemen settle on her prow with lit pipes as they await cargo, this merchant opportunity making the brunt of their payment.

A feast is waiting for them when they arrive at the great halls, the smell of meat heavy in the air. (The elves have learned a few things on the taste of their allied people. The dwarves, too, have learned about the delicacies of elves, and sometimes even offer them.) The feast will be held at the very entrance to Thranduil’s halls, the gates wide open so that the dappled sunlight may play at their feet, along with a cool breeze laden with the sweet smells of the forest. “You have been too long underground,” is Thranduil’s whispered explanation, as Thorin pauses at the sight of the endless table right on the doorstep.

The table is set in silver and oak, bearing hammered silver plates, resplendent and scarred as the full moon, alongside wooden goblets shaped like long-stemmed flowers. The cutlery is silver, with wooden handles, and Thorin picks up a fork as he passes, holds it up to the light streaming in from the open door, and smiles when Thranduil catches his eye.

The two kings sit at the centre of the long table instead of taking the traditional seats at either end of it, the soft green of the forest splayed out before them, beyond the doors. (Thranduil had sat at opposite ends with Thorin’s grandfather, Thror, but ever since the crown fell heavy on Thorin’s shoulders, the dwarf had ushered Thranduil to his side whenever protocol allowed it. “I’ll not shout over merry-making,” had been his excuse. “Besides, you look so dour, you’re apt to put me off my drink.” A poor jest, but Thranduil paid it no heed. Thorin had never been skilled with words. It was gestures he was fluent in, and this was one Thranduil took to heart.) An attending elf takes Thorin’s coat, another Thranduil’s cloak, and as those two disappear with the clothes items, another pair just as fair takes their place on cat-like feet. The elves draw back the center chairs, and elven and dwarf guests alike wait until both Thranduil and Thorin are seated.

Thorin unbuckles his vambraces to the squeak and shuffle of a dozen bodies settling into their seats. As he is taking off the second, he catches sight of the young scribe he’s agreed to take on this visit. The poor dwarf is beside himself with excitement already, shoving his plate and goblet aside to make space for his parchment and ink. Balin had told him this one had promise, “and my eyes aren’t what they used to be, so he best be getting some experience under his belt.” A feast and a trade discussion is hardly worthwhile cutting one’s teeth over, but Ori seems keen enough.

An unintrusive voice by Thorin’s ear whispers, “ _Andâf lín_ **[1]**” out of habit, the words pointless as Sindarin is still unintelligible to Thorin, and an elf quickly takes his vambraces from the table, to be reunited with his coat. In their place, the elf places a wash basin, pouring cold water from a jug over Thorin’s hands as he washes them free of travel grime.

“So,” he says, drying his hands on a cloth, watching from the corner of his eye as Thranduil does the same, although much more fastidiously. “What culinary delights will you force on me this time?”

Thranduil arches an eyebrow as he folds the damp cloth before handing it back to the elf hovering at his elbow. He waits until the elf and the one attending Thorin are gone before he marks Thorin’s words. He turns to the dwarf, eyes narrowed, obviously a breath away from a cutting remark, but something in Thorin’s face changes his mind. “Trout,” he says curtly.

Thorin’s lip curls. “I’ve smelt nothing but fish all day,” he says, thinking on the long boat ride. “You’d think Men didn’t have a lake to bathe in.”

“And Erebor has the River Running, and yet...”

Thorin huffs but says nothing, turning instead to the silverware, running his fingers over the hammered indentations of his plate – carefully not to look at it from on high and catch his reflection – before sliding them down the long stem of his goblet. His fingers catch on the wooden thorns carved from the wood, and he presses down on one hard with his thumb.

Thranduil watches him carefully for a moment, then gently lifts the goblet from Thorin’s hand and cries out, “Wine! Wine for my guests, or they’ll surely drink the Forest River dry in their thirst!” He keeps Thorin’s goblet in hand until it is filled with blood-red wine, thick as spilled life on a sword, and hands it back with a teasing smile.

“Deer.”

Thorin takes his goblet back before it touches the tablecloth. “What?” He takes a deep draft.

Thranduil lifts his own goblet and takes a sip, watching the sun play with the leaves. “There’s also venison.”

“Good,” is Thorin’s only reply, and with that he downs the rest of the wine. He does not make a gibe about Legolas’ aim.

The feast unfolds with growing merriment as the elves and dwarves regain their footing around the other, bolstered by wine and food. Jokes are thrown across the table (and not a bit of food, as well), each more bawdy than the next as wine decanters are emptied. Even the first strings of a harp do not detract from their fun.

Thorin, for his part, frowns into his goblet, the polished wood wet with wine trickling down from the petal lip. His face settles back into the distanced grimness it’s been sporting since he walked the plank when he recognizes the opening notes of a popular dwarven jig. He watches a couple of dwarves leap into dance, dragging along one of the elves, but does not join in the cheers that erupt around the table.

Instead, he reaches again for the wine and fills his goblet to the brim.

Or he tries to, but the wine floods the hollow flower and spills over, soaking into the tablecloth like a wound. “ _Binaslâb_ **[2]**,” he grunts under his breath, shaking wine off his fingers.

Thranduil watches him from the corner of his eye, counts the number of times the decanter at Thorin’s elbow (it used to sit at the center of the table, but that was before Thorin touched it) is filled, eyes the full plate that never empties even by a mouthful. He says nothing.

The sunlight has waned to the golden glow of evening, full of promise one moment, gone the next, like so many lives in Middle Earth, and they are only halfway through the feast. Thranduil has had enough, however. Or rather, _Thorin_ has had enough, he thinks, studying the lost, dull expression on his guest’s flushed face. Spilled and spattered wine mars the tablecloth around Thorin’s plate like it’s seen a battle, and Thorin, stubborn dwarf that he is, will not go down.

But he just might, if he pours himself another –

Thandruil’s hand clamps over the goblet’s mouth, and Thorin’s reflexes are just slow enough that a dash of wine pours over Thranduil’s fingers, trickling between to fill the cup.

Thorin glares up at him, a sharp word hot on his lips, but Thranduil cuts him off.

“Come with me.”

He stands up without waiting to see whether his words are heeded. The music dies halfway through a note and a moment later the dancers and feasters stop as well. Dwarves and elves alike still their mouths and the mirth in their bodies, standing to face their host and king in silence.

“Please, enjoy yourselves,” says Thranduil, gracefully sweeping an arm over the table, brimming with platters stacked high with food. “My guests, should you wish to retire, you will be guided to your chambers. Awake with clear heads, for tomorrow we have much to discuss. But tonight is for joy – and that includes you, young scribe.”

Ori makes a startled noise in the back of his throat and hastily closes his book, his hands more covered in ink than gravy. Thranduil softens his face and offers a smile. “Live, young dwarf,” he councils again.

Thranduil looks down at the dark mane that is Thorin’s bowed head and lays a hand on his shoulder. “Will you walk with me?” he asks, for the benefit of the other guests. His earlier words were command enough, meant only for Thorin’s ears.

Thorin pushes back his chair with a loud scrape of wood against wood. He stands, and grips the back of the chair only a bird’s breath too long, but when he turns and walks from the feast his steps are steady. The jig picks up again once they are a distance from the feast, far from the soft light of dusk, their footsteps bringing them ever deeper into the dark halls of Thranduil’s realm.

Thorin lets Thranduil lead them through winding passages and spiralling stairs, though he knows the way as well as that of his own halls. Their guards trail behind them, faithful shadows that fade into the walls as they reach Thranduil’s private chambers.

Thranduil opens the door and Thorin walks below his outstretched arm. He is stretched on the bed before Thranduil has finished bolting it, boots kicked off and green velvet cover fisted tight in his hands. He is staring at the ceiling as it might give way any moment and crush him, or perhaps spread the stars before him.

Thranduil slips off his heavy robe, loosens the laces of his undershirt, and joins Thorin on the bed. His legs hang off the edge of the bed – if he flexes his foot, he can toe the thick rug laid out beneath the bed. He wishes Thorin had aimed a little higher, put his head on the pillow instead of in the middle of the bed, so Thranduil wouldn’t have to dangle off it so badly.

“I never took you for a gardener,” says Thranduil to Thorin’s profile, “to so water your rose.”

Thorin grunts, not catching his meaning, eyes still turned upwards. “I’m not your pet.” The words are barely a whisper, but Thranduil hears them regardless.

He attacks them from the side.

“What were you trying to drown with my wine?”

Thorin slowly turns his face towards Thranduil. His eyes flicker to his hair, trapped beneath the elf’s head. “Drown?” he asks, tongue thick in his mouth, and slow.

“Drown, aye. Had I served beer instead of wine, you might have gotten yourself quite drunk.”

Thorin closes his eyes at this. Thranduil does not read too much into it; Thorin often does so, when this close to Thranduil’s eyes. Something about his gaze always unsettled the dwarf.

“A cacophony of voices,” is Thorin’s eventual answer. He sighs, raises a hand to brush a strand of hair from his face but lets it drop by his head instead. “There are so many ways to fail one’s people.”

“Your kingdom flourishes,” says Thranduil, not as a comfort, but as a truth. “It is in good hands.”

Thorin snorts at this, a harsh, broken sound. “Whose hands?”

 _Ah_ , thinks Thranduil. He repeats the whisper. “My pet.”

Thorin merely raises his eyebrows, as if to say, “Do you see now?”

Thrandul shifts on the bed, mental gears kicking into motion. He should have seen this coming.

“I should be more shrewd in our treaties,” says Thorin, obviously quoting those voices. “Squeeze more from Mirkwood than what you choose to give.” He dips his head back, pressing it into the mattress. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple moving beneath thin skin, visible still beneath his short mourning beard, and Thranduil wonders if he will ever let it grow long again. “They want gold again.”

Thranduil stills at the word, this metal that drowned Thorin’s grandfather. He is as a tree becalmed, and waits.

“I entered the treasurey, once,” says Thorin, gaze once again to the ceiling. “It took everything in me to pass those doors...” His eyes flicker over the stone, tracing hair cracks. “Both times.”

Thranduil’s mind stumbles over Thorin’s words and his eyebrows draw together until he realizes what Thorin means. He near leaps onto one elbow, twisting on the bed to lay on his side, staring down at Thorin.

Thorin meets his gaze and smiles, a thin, tired smile that would have been a grimace were it not for the wine. “It appears I may take after my grandfather after all.”

Thranduil studies Thorin’s face, mind whirring. “Dorwinion,” he announces. At Thorin’s questioning look, Thranduil claps a hand to the dwarf’s chest. “Dorwinion,” he repeats, pushing himself up and walking towards the door, leaving Thorin sitting up on the bed, confused.

Thranduil unlatches and opens his door, fingers snapping before his arm is even passed the threshold. He gives his orders to the guard who comes running only to turn heel and run back down the hall.

“You’ll feel like you’ve lost a round with a stone giant in the morning,” cautions Thranduil, “but I have something that will silence those voices for tonight.”

“More wine?”

“More wine.”

 

[1]With your permission ([Hiswelókë's Sindarin Dictionary](http://www.jrrvf.com/hisweloke/sindar/online/english.html), [Council of Elrond's Sindarin Workbook](http://www.councilofelrond.com/reading/19-sent-structure/))

[2] Useless ( _lit._ without use, [The Dwarrow Scholar's Neo-Khuzdul Dictionary](https://dwarrowscholar.wordpress.com/khuzdul/documents-dictionaries/))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for: Capernoited (slightly intoxicated or tipsy).


End file.
